


The Definition of greatness

by Captain_Mercurian



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 00Q is endgame though, And also one of the Holmes' brothers will die at one point, Dysfunctional Family, Especially Mycroft and Q are downright enemies at some point, Half-Sibling Incest, I won't tell which one though, James Bond is a history teacher and not a spy though, M for Mummy Holmes, M/M, Mycroft becomes M after his mother's death, Q is a Holmes, Q is a cyberterrorist, Sherlock is spy for MI6, Sibling Rivalry, This really revolves around the Holmes' brothers and not around 00Q, Though Sherlock/Q is not really romantic but 00Q is, Yes Q is their half-brother, Yes he and Sherlock have somewhat of an affair at one pont, and he will turn up much later, if you're patient you get a really cute 00Q slow burn, or more like Sibling War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6315043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Mercurian/pseuds/Captain_Mercurian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people didn't realize that 'greatness' wasn't exclusively linked to anything 'good', that it was neither a synonym nor an aggravation for 'goodness'.</p><p>The Holmes brothers were great men.</p><p>Not one of them was good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

There was greatness – and then there was _greatness_.

Most people didn't know what it meant when they said: “He is a great man.”  
What they meant to say – and what others automatically assumed to be the meaning – was: “He is a _very good_ man.”  
They didn't realize that there was a difference, that 'greatness' wasn't exclusively linked to anything 'good', that it was neither a synonym nor an aggravation for 'goodness'.

The Holmes brothers were great men.

Not one of them was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, ok, guys. This will hopefully become a pretty long story. Whoever is uncomfortable with the prospect of half-sibling incest happening probably shouldn't read this.  
> This is kind of a character and relationship study wrapped in a complex story about rivalry, yearn for affection and how one's mistakes can ruin lives. 
> 
> For all the 00Qlers: This will eventually turn to 00Q but keep in mind that James will appear much later on. The beginnings will start with only the Holmes brothers, evolve to Sherlock/Q and _then_ turn to 00Q. 
> 
> Also, one of the Holmes brothers will die. Feel free to guess which one but I won't tell until the very end.


	2. Interlude #1

17th October 2024, _10:09 p.m._

 

The sky was a star-littered canvas, beautifully painted above the Ryvinn House; dead leaves dancing across the dull lawn. It was quiet except for the rustling of the trees and the soft _Tack-Tack_ of a pair of gents' shoes walking on the paved path leading from the family's graveyard to the small estate on top of the hill.

There was the slightest tremble of his hand as he took a drag of his cigarette, his face carefully collected and expressionless. A cool draught blew some ash from the burned stub, red sparks floating in the wind for the briefest of seconds and he followed them with his gaze, keeping his mind blank.

 _Emotions_ , he thought, followed by a weak huff. _What a waste of cerebral space_.

(He told himself it was the wind that made his eyes dry and sore.)

It wasn't like he hadn't expected it to happen, hadn't expected this mess of a funeral. He had seen it coming a long time ago and subconsciously decided to turn a blind eye on it and let things play out, allowing it to slip right out of his grasp. There was nothing he could have done about it. (When did he start to try and manipulate himself to believe such obvious lies?)

Getting rid of his cigarette with a careless flick of his fingers, he barely bothered to squelch the remains under his heel before opening the back door of the place he had once considered his home.

The air was fuggy and dusty and he closed his eyes for a brief moment to control the tingling behind his lids. With a little more force than strictly necessary, he shrugged out of his coat, pulling his silky scarf from his neck as he climbed the stairs to the parlour. Stepping into the room, he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the slim figure gingerly leaning against the ebony piano, stroking its dusted surface with the palm of his hand.

There was a strange emotion bubbling in his abdomen, akin to anger, one he couldn't remember having ever experienced by just _looking_ at someone. Still, his voice was smooth and cool as he proceeded to walk and casually, if not slightly sarcastic, said: “There was a time in which I would have considered you punctual. You're a little late for the funeral.”

'A little' was an extreme understatement. The burial had taken place about _five hours_ ago.

The man didn't answer right away; the only sign of him having heard him at all, was the slight pause of his hand before he resumed to glide his long fingers across the layer of dust on the piano.

“I never intended to attend,” he finally said and finally turned his head to look at the other man and watch him throw his outerwear across the leathern lounge. “I can't see the purpose of that, either way.”

A huff and the slight shake of his head were the only answer to that. The air felt heavy on his shoulders, stifling and dusty. His already dry throat burned at his slow intake of breath.

“You were out there for quite some time,” the man said, shifting slightly and placing both hands on the piano, next to either side of his body. “I wouldn't have taken you for the sentimental type.”

“Funny,” he said, voice rougher but not aggressively so; he sounded tired above all, “that's exactly what I had taken _you_ for.”

' _And now look at us_ ' was what he didn't say but he was positive the other heard it nevertheless, read it in-between the lines.

The silence that followed was a mute confirmation.

He could turn the lights on if he wanted to, however, there was this feeling in his chest, something that was exquisitely painful, cold and warming at the same time, as he stared at the familiar silhouette of the other. It felt dangerously close to _mal du pays_. ('Homesickness' – It didn't sound as fitting when said in English, its resonance too harsh, nearly numbing.)

“You shouldn't be here,” was what he finally said, veering off as if he'd burn if they didn't change the subject immediately. (Maybe he would. _Sentiment_ was the most unpredictable of things when it came to human nature.)

“I know,” the other retorted, quiet but deliberately firm as if not to reveal any emotion, “however, I am not exactly known for doing what I am supposed to.”

 _No_ , he thought. _I guess you aren't_.

“It's a stupid thing to do, isn't it?”

 


	3. Chapter 1, The first Holmes brother

Mycroft Holmes was born at a Leap Year, the 29th February of 1972. There was nothing extraordinarily remarkable about him when he was laid into his mother's hands; pink, crying and squirming. It was a beautiful moment like any other birth was, or at least, it was in the _textbook_.

Olivia Holmes wasn't a sentimental woman, never had been, even at her tender age of 26. She held the baby with a tired, stern face, neither patting nor rocking her newly born son.  
“He's healthy?” she inquired with a professional, strict voice, blue eyes directed at the doctor. There was a slight crease between his brows, which she quickly identified as confusion at her lack of emotional response to the child she had just given birth to.

“Yes, he seems to be perfectly healthy,” he confirmed and she nodded curtly.  
“Good,” she said, looking for a nurse to hand off her baby to. “I want to get some sleep before my husband takes us home.”  
The husband, as she had explained earlier when she had arrived in a taxi, who was still in his lab at work and would come over when convenient.

Yes, he knew she was in the hospital and that the delivery was due.

No, his boss didn't force him to stay at work.

The doctor bandied looks with the nurse but ultimately nodded and the baby was taken away.

Three hours later Hamish Holmes arrived at the hospital and heartlessly filled in the birth registration, stating the name the baby was to be gifted with.

 

 _Mycroft Holmes_.

 

(The doctor wondered if they tried to punish the child for its mere existence.)

  
They left and back home at their small estate, _the Ryvinn House_ , the child was immediately shoved into a nursemaid's arms.

A week later Olivia Holmes readopted her position as the assistant and right hand of the head of MI6. Hamish Holmes, too, had barely shot a look at the child before heading back to work, tinkering in his lab and analysing the blood of a man with a disease that in 9 years time would come to be known as _AIDS_.

Olivia and Hamish Holmes were geniuses, impressively if not intimidatingly intelligent, disciplined and reliable.  
One fought to keep England safe through professional espionage while the other tried to save countless of lives by identifying new diseases and finding a way to cure, or at least, treat them.

It was hard to say whether the emotional neglect of their child was incredibly selfish or impossibly selfless.

Both being as brilliant as they were, it was not a surprise when Mycroft managed to speak short but impressively precise sentences barely a year after he was born. They were mumbled and hard to understand, although, about a year and a half later his words were as clear and sharp as a 5 Year-old's.

He finished primary school two years early and quickly exceeded his older classmates in secondary school – not without complaining about being bored _constantly_.

His intellectual abilities hadn't been a surprise considering who his parents were, however, there never had been a push for him to be that way. He had been a remarkable student all by himself, memorizing whatever he needed to know through his eidetic memory, taking cello lessons out of boredom and learning languages as a matter to pass time at the weekends.

He was a quiet, self-confident and cold person, chin held up high in pride, back straight and expression constantly relaxed if not downright bored. Everything he did was done effortlessly so. (Except P.E. - He was hopelessly clumsy when it come to using the body his brain was attached to.)

Mycroft Holmes was a genius like his parents. Sociable when he needed to be but otherwise content with the way he was growing up – Alone and at peace.

His wish for privacy and isolation was something else he had inherited from his parents.

 

Olivia and Hamish Holmes weren't a typical couple, after all, they hadn't married out of _sentiment_ or anything ridiculous of the sort. It had merely been a promising arrangement that would suffice to meet society's expectation of them. Being unmarried, especially as a female, would have lowered their status – an important thing if one wished to change the world in one way or another.

So they married out of convenience, spending their lives mostly apart from one another and rarely sleeping in the same bed, let alone the same room.

Mycroft had been a product of deliberately trying to get childbirth done with, again, simply to please society by having a child to show off at formal events.

Therefore, the probability of him ever having to deal with something as unnecessary and useless as a _sibling_ was impossibly low, especially, since he was 12 Years old already and there had been no need for another show-off-child whatsoever.

So, Mycroft almost couldn't believe it when he noticed a peculiar change in his mother: Her sudden disgust at any meal involving red meat, weird cravings for far too sweet pâtisseries and unexplainable nausea in the mornings.

She was pregnant.

It was a logical conclusion and it did match with the dates considering that a month prior she had stayed at home for a week. (Her boss had forced her to and Mycroft liked to imagine her being dragged out of the office, red nails scratching the door frame in resistance.)

Surprisingly, Hamish had also spent some days at home at the same time and they even went to Mycroft's cello concert _together_ – An occurrence that had never happened before.

So, apparently, they had made use of their time together, even though, he found it very hard to imagine them succumbing to something as primitive as sexual intercourse. Mycroft figured that was an instinct not even his stone-cold parents were completely immune to.  
More surprisingly, however, was the fact that his ever-so-careful mother had failed to avoid a pregnancy.  
  
A week later, he was asked to join them for dinner and he secretly smirked to himself when his mother declared: “You're going to have a sibling.”  
Mycroft nodded in understanding. “I know,” he said and there was a moment of hesitation before he decided to be brave and sate his curiosity, “ _Why_ , though? There was no need for you to try for another child and I can't believe you weren't careful enough.”

Hamish almost smiled at that, a proud glint in his grey eyes. His mother simply cocked an eyebrow at him, averting her gaze for a second which was as much of a nervous expression Mycroft had ever seen on her.  
“We thought you might appreciate a sibling,” she confessed and Mycroft felt his facial features slipping at the confusion and surprise that were overtaking him.

The words were almost stuttered as he asked in pure disbelieve and downright offence: “What _in the name of God_ would make you _think_ that?”

Olivia and Hamish Holmes bandied looks.

“Because you're lonely,” she finally said and Hamish nodded. “Molly told us.”

His confused expression was replaced by a scowl at the mention of his nanny. _He_ was the one making observations and deductions, not _her_ \- and now her mistake had led to him getting a _sibling_.

“It might do you some good,” his father asserted, interlacing his fingers on the table, “to have a similar mind around you. A smart companion your age.”

“Hardly my age,” Mycroft scoffed, clearly disgusted at the mere thought of a 'companion'. “I'll be 12 years their senior, furthermore, I'll be out of this house long before they'd be of any use to me.”

Amusement twinkled in his father's eyes and there was a slight twitch of his mother's mouth which was as close to a laugh as she was capable of getting.  
“You're so  _young_ ,” Hamish all but chuckled, shaking his head almost fondly. Mycroft didn't know what to do with that rare expression of affection towards his person and felt shame at the implication of his words.

“Obviously, you don't think ahead,” his mother said, her voice flat as if disappointed at his lack of foresight. “You always complain about being surrounded by people far below your intellect whenever we're not around. Now imagine what will happen when we're buried in the graveyard in the garden.”  
There was a moment of heavy silence.

Mycroft's head was spinning; he hadn't thought of that. They were right to an extent.

Still, his stomach turned at the idea of another person added to the family breaking their well-practiced routine. Besides, he _hated_ being wrong.

“How can you be sure that they are going to be anything like me? What if they end up being average?” he asked, eyebrow cocked to mirror his mother's expression from earlier.  
Another twitch of her mouth.  
“Highly unlikely,” she said. “Neither your father's nor my family was ever known for being even remotely average, Mycroft.”

“It's just an assumption,” his father admitted, earning a sharp look from Olivia. “ _Elimination of possibilities_ , though.”

  
Mycroft's face settled into another scowl, however, he knew when to retreat from battle. There was nothing to be done about _it_ now. He will have to accept that his family is going to expand in approximately 8 months time.

 

He could only hope that this child wouldn't end up being an _idiot_.

 

 


End file.
